In 1981, a noted editor,
martini under a small lamp,
yawned, turned the manuscript over,
snapped off the light,
Took the last sip, tongued the olive,
went to bed, after signing
the letter informing
Gabriel Marquez his story
submitted to the New Yorker
would not be accepted.
Marquez won the Nobel Prize in ’82.
I suspect that same editor
is now quietly sipping a martini
by that same lamp, intoning,“I fucking
rejected, Gabriel Marquez,”
nodding, "I fucking…”
My story was rejected by said mag
last year. I suspect martinis ahead
for another poor fool.
Originally published in Ink Pantry